


1868

by zeekubeast



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anti-Imperialism, Blood and Gore, Dismemberment, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Untranslated Languages, but magic dragon tattoos are fine then, hand trauma, historical fiction - Freeform, historical imperialism, i am going to eat their keyboard, if somebody tells me i can't make them gay and trans in 1868
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeekubeast/pseuds/zeekubeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year 1868, a tumultuous time across the globe. A 15 year old boy is declared Emperor in Japan, the British Empire is at the height of its power, and the flames of Civil War grow hot in the United States.<br/>Jesse McCree, southwestern cowboy born and bred, finds himself on a mission to investigate the Shimada-gumi, a yakuza family with its sights set on the growing drug trade in Shanghai. But when he ends up the captive of the clan heir, things go about as well as you'd expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell and High Water

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: There are non-english language lines that have been left untranslated in this fic. I do not speak all of the languages used, so if you are a native speaker and notice a mistake don't be afraid to correct me.  
> I have also never played Overwatch because who has 70 euros for a goddamn videogame.
> 
> Thank you deeply to my fiance Rox (ZawehZawah on tumblr) for taking on the research and proof-reading for this fic as well as being a great inspiration and all around excellent dude. Thank you also to Fletcher for proof-reading the japanese!

_Japan, 1868_

McCree rose with a gasp, saltwater streaming from his face and the frigid January air biting his lungs with each grateful breath. He panted, treading water. Twisting his head he squinted through the water in his lashes to find land. _… There!_ He dragged his water-logged hat up from the sea with his metal hand, jammed it on his head, and began kicking for the shore.

Of all the indignities he'd suffered, being thrown overboard not twenty yards from the docks was a new one. He swore, spitting saltwater. Mean-ass Dutch fella and his buddies had seen fit to toss him out over some damned misunderstanding. Over what? A bit of missing tobacco and second-rate moonshine? McCree let his anger keep him warm as he struggled against his soaked clothes, cursing the sailors in every language he knew.

When he finally crawled on to dry land, McCree was shivering more than he was swearing. Metal hand clutched at the seaweed-slicked moorings even as he heaved himself up. He coughed, exhausted. He felt like a drowned rat, teeth chattering and hat dripping pathetically on to the dirt. He'd had worse, but shit, this was pretty awful.

McCree supposed he should count his blessings. Least it wasn't snowing here. The winter maritime air was cold - but not freezing - at least not technically. The breeze cut across his wet face like Jack Frost's own teeth. McCree sneezed, loudly.A couple of white sailors on shore leave stopped their chatting to stare at him. One of them called out in a rough voice "Hé, Amerikaan! Gaat het goed met je?"

"Yeah- yeah, I'm g-good!" McCree waved back, struggling to pull his drenched serape off his shoulders. Dutch, he guessed. Nicer than the guys who'd tossed him out, hopefully. He wrung the red fabric out as best he could before pulling it back around his shoulders. Not that it would do much good.

He sighed, breath forming clouds as he puffed out. Not the first time he'd been shit out of luck, and not the worst. At least this time he was still standing upright. McCree patted himself down, trying to find what was left of his belongings. Hat (still there), clothes (drenched, freezing), revolver (loaded, holstered, gunpowder probably useless), bullets (missing), bag (missing), money (in bag, missing), cigars (also in his bag, and the one he'd tucked into his boot was gone) - _shit!_

 "Hey, uh," McCree turned back to the sailors,"you fellas wouldn't mind lending me a smoke, would ya? Y'know, fumar?" He mimed the action with his right hand, holding a pair of blue fingers to his lips.

"Smoke? Oh, _roken_! Ja. Hier," the sailor who'd called out to him produced a cigarette and a box of matches. McCree accepted the former gratefully and leaned in to let the man light it up.

"Much obliged, partner," He said, hissing warm smoke through his teeth, and then in clumsy German "Danke."

They talked – well, _mimed_ , with each other for a while in half-sentences until the other sailor pointed out that McCree's lips were going blue, and he'd better get indoors before he shivered himself to pieces. Thank the Lord for the kindness of strangers, McCree thought to himself once he was inside and drying himself in front of a stove.

His new friends, Nico and Gerd (introductions an awkward, gesturing affair), had led him to a cozy little establishment with red paper lanterns just spitting distance from the docks. It was some kind of bar or teahouse, he guessed, though it was nothing like any bar he'd seen before.The tables were all low to the ground and folks were sitting on reed mats on their knees in little booths separated by paper walls. McCree knew they were paper because he accidentally poked his finger through the corner of one, then sheepishly pretended nothing had happened.

Gerd, the guy who had given him a smoke, had ordered a round of drinks for them. McCree grinned and thanked him again, called him an angel. Nico, the other fella who had hair so blond his eyebrows were invisible, shook his head and said something to McCree in Dutch that was clearly meant to be rude to his friend. Gerd laughed and shoved Nico. They were both grinning. McCree smiled along, not understanding a word.

A local lady in a fancy looking dress with a big ribbon around the middle brought them little cups and a tall clay bottle full of warmed booze. _Saké_ or something? He could barely pick out the words. It smelled a bit like rain on metal and a bit like rice. McCree tipped his hat in thanks and took a sip. The wafting alcohol tickled his nose, but the drink itself went down smooth as silk. He felt the winter chill lift a little from his bones with every sip. Boy, he needed that.

"This is real good," he said, smacking his lips. He pointed at the cup and gave a thumbs up. Gerd and Nico agreed. The serving lady then brought a plate of thick peapods and some grilled meat on skewers, which McCree was almost more grateful for than the booze and the warmth. Fickle as she was, Lady Luck knew how to get to a man's heart.

McCree leaned back, letting the warmth of the stove and the friendly Dutch chatter wash over him. This wasn't so bad. His clothes were still damp and drying, the saltwater made the fabric coarse and scratchy, but he was warm and drinking and was being fed out of kindness. Shoot, if he could figure out what the sailors were saying, he could even be in good company.

A warm and lazy feeling uncoiled in his stomach. McCree let his eyes drift about the little booth, watching the shadows of the people in the next one over. Their voices drifted through the thin walls, steadily getting louder, but he paid no mind. What was a saloon without a bit of rowdiness?

Instead, his thoughts turned to what to do next - maybe ask his friends for some dock work to make back a little cash to get himself set up? Then he could start sniffing around, get started on the real job he was sent here for, learn to speak the lingo, make connections. McCree caught Gerd's eye, a little twinkle in the blue. He was already well on the way to making a few-

The thought was cut short by the sound of a gunshot. Wet heat splashed across his cheeks. Red on the paper walls. Blood on the table. Gerd's head crashed into the plates, a hole blasted into the back of his neck. Dead in a second.

Instincts taking over before he could feel pity for the poor bastard, McCree kicked up the wooden table and ducked behind it for cover. There was shouting - a few people screamed at the shot - men's voices from behind the partition and the sound of sharp metal hissing through the air. The bloodied paper fell to a slice from a long sword and a pair of men crashed through.

 Locals, in long robes, one young and lean and grinning like a cat while the other guy, older, balding, charged after him yelling. The old guy missed his target - kid jumped up, dodged the blade - and charged the end of his sword into poor Nico who had been too slow to get behind cover. McCree winced at the squelch as the blade was pulled back out of Nico's guts. His body fell heavy to the floor. Another soul gone.

Before McCree could even cock the hammer of his gun, to prevent the balding thug from taking him out, or anybody else unlucky enough to be in the crossfire, the kid landed and sliced his sword clean through the old guy's shoulder. McCree saw his bullet hit the arm even as it fell off, bone sliced through like wheat to the sickle. Fucking sharp sword. Holy shit.

The kid turned his back to McCree as another guy ran at him, forcing the kid to block him with the sword.

"Kora! Shimada-yarou! Koko de shindaro!" The man yelled. He pushed hard, using his bulk to make the kid give ground. The kid rolled with it like a pro. The other guy barreled forward, losing his balance and crashing ass over tea-kettle behind the table where McCree was hiding.

 McCree wasn't about to let the guy use his fancy sword on him neither. With a flick of his wrist, McCree pistol-whipped him across the face. He screamed, flinched as the spur dug into his eye, losing the grip on his sword. Just enough space for McCree to press the muzzle into his chest and blast twice through the lungs. Fourth man down.

McCree rolled out of his hiding place and on to his feet. Most of the other customers had left or were leaving in a rush of bodies that streamed away from the whirlwind of men fighting a few feet away from him. The kid was fighting back to back with another young fella with long straight black hair wielding short blades. They moved like a tornado, keeping the three black-robed fighters who had surrounded them at bay with sharp jabs.

A third man who looked older than the two in the middle, but wore the same blue and gold robes, spotted McCree and shouted something McCree didn't understand. No time to guess who the white-hats were. McCree shot him in the shoulder, then ducked out of the way as a black-robed guy was kicked towards him. He popped up, cut a quick left hook with his metal hand to the chin, and put a hole through the man's head.

"Adíos!" McCree shouted, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. The long haired fella gave him a sharp look, then at where the bodies lay by his feet. His face twisted, and McCree felt a jolt as he met his eyes. Those were probably his buddies. Oops.

The knives whistled above his head as McCree tucked into a roll. The guy sure was quick, he had to give him that. McCree kicked a leg out, hoping to catch him in the knees. The other man sidestepped the sweep. McCree popped up, blocking a cut with his left arm. The long haired man's eyes flickered in surprise when his blade hit metal. McCree saluted, closed in, braced their shoulders together and pivoted their weight into a turn. The other man whirled around, taken off guard but not off balance. McCree could feel himself grinning. God damn, couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun in a fight.

Pushing away to create distance, McCree cocked the hammer of his gun and brandished it in the long-haired fella's face. "You sure are nifty with those knives, partner," He said, eyeing up his opponent better.

Short, almost a head shorter than him, with a sharp face and thin dark eyes that were glaring bloody murder at him. Strong arms and shoulders under the robes, knees bent lightly and his footing was so solid he might as well have been rooted to the ground. The cupid's bow of the man's mouth was drawn taught into a scowl that looked regal on his smooth face. Maybe he was even younger than the kid? Didn't feel like it. He had the kind of poise McCree had only ever seen in generals - all hard certainty that he knew what was _his_. And, devil strike him down, he was one of the prettiest guys McCree had ever seen.

"What's your name, amigo? I like to know who it is I'm gonna be draggin' down to hell with me." McCree's voice was low and playful as they circled each other cautiously, fight still going on in the background. Just like a showdown out West. His grin widened.  "Fella like you has gotta have a bad-ass name, the way you fight."

The man's eyes narrowed. Cold as a hawk's and twice as deadly.

"No? Not gonna speak up?" The spurs on McCree's heels jingled as he took another step. Eyes locked on his target. "That's mighty poor manners, y'know. Ain't you heard o' politeness out here?"

"Urusai, _gaijin_ ," The man spat back. His voice was higher than expected. Venomous. More of a snake, then.

McCree licked his teeth. "No idea what ya called me, partner, but I know enough that it ain't nice."

Across from them, the kid who had been busy fighting off the last of the black-robes called out, "Anija, ki o tsukete!"

The man's eyes swung to his nine o' clock, off McCree. McCree looked too. A middle-sized man with a beard in a red robe was pointing a pistol at the long haired fella. The gun that had shot Gerd. _Bastard._

It happened in a heartbeat. Twin streaks of red hanging in the air, one from the head and one from the neck, McCree's shot echoing like a thunderbolt, the wet glint of blood on steel on the long-haired fella's blades. The bastard was dead before he hit the ground.

McCree blinked, looking back at his opponent. He'd moved fast as McCree had pulled the trigger. Fast as a _bullet_. The man met his glance, looking almost as surprised as McCree felt at their teamwork. McCree gave a low whistle of appreciation. The man scowled back.

A prickle of dread settled on the back of McCree's neck. The air was thick with the smell of fresh blood, bodies and furniture strewn about like a tornado had passed through. There was the kid and his friend, the long-haired fella; the last men standing. And then there was McCree, and his gun, and his last bullet. Shit.

"Well, gentlemen, I s'pose this is the part where we say howdy-do and go our separate ways," McCree said lightly, metal hand raised palm-open in a peaceful gesture. "We ain't got no real quarrel here, do we?" He could take out one of them, maybe, if he timed his shot right. Probably get sliced up by the other one in the next second though.

_You're caught in a bind now, Jesse. You're really dead now._

"I'm just a bystander caught up in the mess. Them fellas killed my friends and now they're dead, so I ain't got no trouble callin' it a draw and lettin' it go."

_You can't reason with men who don't understand a lick of what you're saying. You dug yourself into this snake-pit, Jesse, you shoulda just up and left when you had the chance. You shoulda never come to this fucking island on the ass end of the Earth. Fucking devil damned you down, Jesse McCree, why did you take this job?_

The corners of his mouth strained to keep a smile. He licked his lips, throat feeling dry even as he tried to keep his tone low and friendly. "C'mon now, fellas? How 'bout you just let me mosey on out of your ways?" McCree flicked his eyes between the two of them, wary. "Whaddya say?"

The pair exchanged glances. The kid seemed uncertain, hesitant. The other, not so much. Long-hair glared back at McCree.Stone-cold snake eyes staring right into his soul. His hand went to pull something out of his sleeve.

"Guessin' that's a no."

McCree moved first. Feint left, roll forward, aim for the chest not the head, get the hell out of dodge. His right wrist got caught by a faster hand, the recoil from Peacekeeper jarred his arm as it shot high.

 _That's it, then_.

All he saw was a glimpse of painted blue scales twisting up the fine-fingered left hand that gripped his right. Didn't even have time to sigh before he felt the knife in his gut and the blow to his head.Curtains drawn, lights out. He always figured he'd be snuffed out like this. Only wished it could have been in his home. How did he end up out here in the first place?

The last thing McCree heard before he slipped into the void was the kid's voice, rueful and wry. "Anija, hitsuyou deshita ka?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (for those that want them):  
> Hé, Amerikaan! Gaat het goed met je? = Hey American! Are you alright? (updated with correction, thank you)  
> Kora! Shimada-yarou! Koko de shindaro! = Hey! Shimada-bastards! You will die here!  
> Urusai, gaijin = Shut up, foreigner.  
> Anija, ki o tsukete! = Brother, look out!  
> Anija, hitsuyou deshita ka? = Brother, was that necessary?


	2. No Direction but to Follow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There are graphic scenes of violence in this chapter, including: severe hand trauma, amputation and surgical equipment (scalpels, needles). 
> 
> Thank you again to my fiance Rox (ZawehZawah on tumblr) for being my editor, even when life gets absurdly busy. Thank you also to Di (GhostAlebrije) for proof-reading the Spanish.

_Sway-sway-click._

_Sway-sway-click._

_Movement. Toes of his boots in the dirt. Pain on the left side, deep, achey, blood drip-drip-dripping from the wound. Cold breaths._

_Flutter of cloth over his face. Hands pulling him up, strong fingers, men's voices, blurred faces. A sharp gasp as the dull pain blossoms red and suffocating. His head hits the floor._

_Breathe - damnit, breathe!_

_Warm hand on his neck. Perfume in his nose. The flower of pain withers slowly, throbbing, drying, clotted. Everything is a haze._

_Where is he?_

_Arms heavy, shoulders stiff against wooden boards (he's slept on dirt and stone enough to know the difference), lips cracked and dry, heavy cloth on his legs._

_Where is he?_

_There's a tug on his left arm, fingernails scraping at the seam where metal meets flesh. Ghosts of old pain rise in a flurry of mutters and whispers. Fingers flex - both hands._

_Where is he?_

_He smells blood and rain and wood and cloth. Unfamiliar. Not right. Eyes too heavy to look and breathing too weak to speak. The wind whistles, distant, low moan rising up to a high wail. Heart thuds, ba-bum-ba-bum, low litany of life under the wind's pleading whine._

_Foggy mind twists, turns, seeks out familiar comfort in memory. Adds sounds long remembered. Ba-chk-chk-chk ba-chk-chk-chk. Cicadas in the brush. Steam on the wind. Smokey heat passes by his face and he's under the baking prairie sun again…_

 

…

 

_1866, Colorado_

McCree breathed in deep, puffing out a thick stream of smoke, and squinted at the clock under the midday sun. The train was late. He tapped his fingers against his belt buckle, smoke wafting from his lips.

There were a few other people milling about the little po-dunk railway station. A woman fanned herself with a paper pamphlet, hand clutched like a leash on to her little boy's arm. A couple working men were sitting in the shade of the awnings, hunkered down on their haunches, drinking out of dusty canteens and brown glass bottles. McCree eyed them up, checking to see their belts. One had a rifle, an older make that had clearly not been cleaned in months; a smirk flickered across his face. Nothing to worry about there.

A low, groaning whistle signaled the arrival of the locomotive. McCree stubbed out his cigar and thumbed the handle of his revolver as the big machine chugged slowly into the station. A familiar face waved at him from the grimy window - one of his fellow Deadlocks, Leroy. He gave McCree a thumbs up accompanied by a grin. _Easy money_. McCree gave a two-fingered salute back and boarded the train.

McCree scanned the passengers as he walked down the narrow aisle, spurs clicking merrily. Old men in suits reading broad-sheets, some ladies in fine hats, a couple nuns and a family of four, and in between them all was his five-man strike team. He passed them by and headed to the back of the car, only sparing a glance of acknowledgement. Couldn't go blowing their cover before it was time. McCree sat down next to an older gentleman with little eye-glasses perched on the end of his nose who kept checking his pocket watch.

The conductor's voice bellowed from outside, "All aboard! A-a-all aboard!" 

Bells clanged as the last of the passengers shuffled into their seats. The wheels hissed and screeched along the tracks as the engine rumbled back to life, _ba-chk-chk-chk_ , rattling steel and steam as it chugged down the line. McCree leaned back, tipping his hat over his eyes and settled in to doze. _Wait for it, fellas. It's almost show time._

 

They were half an hour out of the station when McCree roused himself, stretching his arms with a yawn. The old man next to him harrumphed something under his moustache as McCree leaned over to check the scenery outside. They were almost at the drop point, the rest of the gang lying in wait with horses for the get-away.

The plan was simple: loot the passengers, stop the train, blow up the safe in the mail car and then ride off, a hundred-thousand dollars richer. McCree licked his lips, a private smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Before the day was done, he'd be a rich man.

Chewing on his unlit cigar, McCree pulled out a match from his pocket. He struck it against the wall, flame sputtering to life with a crackle, put it to the end of his cigar, and puffed deeply until it smoked. Tilting his head back, McCree looked out over the benches to his men, and extinguished the match in a wave in front of his face. The signal.

Casual as a summer's breeze, the Deadlocks stood up from their seats. Jenkins and Diego pulled down their rifles from the luggage rack, the barrels clacking loudly as they were snapped into place. A few passengers exchanged nervous glances - one woman gasped as Leroy brandished his revolver, grinning with the tip of his tongue poking out between the gap in his teeth. McCree cleared his throat, drawing his own weapon, easy smile on his face.

"Folks, me and my friends are gonna put on a little Wild West show for y'all," He drawled, wandering down the aisle, cocking the hammer of his pistol."Some of you might've heard about it." He reached the end of the car and turned around to face his audience with a devil-may-care grin. "It's called a hold-up."

He shot the ceiling. People screamed. A passenger tried to draw his gun, only to be kicked back in the chest by Montero. "Ah-ah! Don't do anything stupid, man," he leered over the man and the woman who was clutching his arm in restraint. "Wouldn't wanna go leaving tu mujer behind, eh?"

McCree clapped him on the shoulder, confiscating the passenger's pistol. "Now folks, if you just keep calm and cooperate, nobody here needs to get hurt," McCree said. "My associates are going to take up a collection. Just like they do in church." The Deadlocks laughed in chorus.

He waved Leroy over, taking the collection bag from him. "Alright, head to the front and make sure the train stops."

"Got it, Jesse," Leroy grinned, wiping the sweat off his clay-colored skin as he shuffled past.

"And don't kill anyone you don't gotta!" McCree called after. "We don't need to give the marshals more reason to come after our asses."

Jenkins tossed a couple sacks over to the others and with a little bit of ‘encouragement’, the passengers began giving up their possessions. Necklaces, watches, money, all disappeared jingling into the bags. One of the nuns spat at McCree's feet as he passed by.“ _¡_ _Hijos de chacales!_ ¡El diablo reclamará sus almas!"

"Amen sister," McCree replied, not missing a beat.

"Why the hell are we still moving?" He chewed on the butt of his cigar, brows furrowing. "Jenkins, go make sure Leroy didn't fall off the train."

"And if he did?" Jenkins shot back as he moved to the door.

"Then stop the damn train yourself!" McCree huffed, snorting smoke.  "We got a schedule to stick to."

The door shut behind Jenkins with a click. McCree leaned his back against it, flicking ash on the floor. Diego and Montero finished collecting and tossed the bags on to their shoulders, guns still pointed at the passengers to prevent any clever ideas. The car kept rattling forward. McCree ashed his cigar again, shuffling restlessly.

 

"I'm gonna head up front," he muttered. "Somethin' ain't right. Y'all keep the peace back here."

The other two nodded, and McCree opened the door to the roaring wind. He grumbled to himself - it always had to be something with these assholes. The Deadlocks were no better than a pack of jackals - hell, jackals probably had a better sense of loyalty than them. Too many loose cannons, too much ambition. Every man for his own damn self until shit got too hot and they came crying for the pack. McCree's eyes blurred as he stepped over the link-joint, watching the tracks beneath him speed past. He shook his head.

"Leroy! Jenkins!" He shouted, opening the door to the Mail car. "If y'all’ve killed the engineer, God help me, I'll kick your sorry asses from here to El Paso!"

"Jesse-?! _Argh!_ " A loud crack cut off the cry, followed by Leroy gurgling pitifully. The two Deadlocks were flat on their backs in the center of the car, a dark-cloaked figure knelt over them. McCree swore he could feel a chill fall over the room as the strange man looked up at him with piercing dark eyes.

McCree aimed his gun. "And just who in the hell are you?"

The stranger stood up to his full height - he looked about as tall as McCree - and rolled his neck, joints cracking. He was dressed from head to toe in black, long coat-tails swaying as he stepped forward, spurs clicking metallic and sharp. His face was a soft brown, tanned darker in the Colorado desert sun, his bright eyes gleaming with cruel interest. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he spoke in a voice that could have raised the dead, "Just an ordinary, unarmed passenger."

McCree cocked his gun, unnerved by the calm way the stranger walked forward.

 

"And who are you, vaquero?" The stranger grinned. "Are you the boss of these idiots? Their _friend?_ "

"I'll have you know, the Deadlocks don't take kindly to hurtin' one of our own," McCree replied, gritting his teeth. "And there's more of us where we came from."

 The stranger chuckled odd and dark, baring his teeth.  The spurs on his boots chimed again as he walked forward. McCree could feel a bead of cold sweat running down from his brow as he noticed the silver star pinned inside the man's coat; a marshal.

"You're just like all the other outlaws I've killed," The stranger lashed out, quick as whip, grabbing McCree's gun with a crushing hand. When had he gotten so close? "You all think you're going to be protected by something _special_."

McCree tried to shoot, push back with his left arm - but the stranger's grip was to strong. The shot fired through his own arm. Pain burst red-hot behind his eyes as McCree felt bone shatter, muzzle flare scorched against his skin.  It hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_.

 He screamed. Tried to lash out, pistol whip the bastard, shoot him, _kill him_ -!

The marshal caught the gun again and fired it through McCree's wrist. And again, and again, until McCree's left forearm was blood-soaked and mangled. McCree dropped his gun, hunching over to clutch his left arm with his right, vision swimming. He gasped for breath, sobbing, swearing.

The marshal loomed over him, casting a long shadow. "Pathetic."

McCree grit his teeth. Fingers clumsy from pain and slick with blood, he pulled the switchblade from his boot. He waited until the marshal got close enough, watching the oiled black boots step on his fallen hat with bleary eyes.

"Scum like you ain't good enough to bleed on my boots."

_Now!_ McCree lunged for the eyes, swinging the blade wide. The knife drew blood, slicing two bright streaks across the marshal's face. The man hissed. A gloved hand went up to touch his cheek, eyes hooded as he looked at the blood on his fingertips.

"Nice try," he growled, clenching his fist. He struck McCree across the face.

A boot kicked him in the gut. Right hook to the eye. Uppercut from the left. McCree stumbled back with each blow, barely able to gasp between them, arm leaving a bloody trail across the floor. His back hit the car door, the marshal's fist dragging him to stand by the hair.

"You're still conscious, huh?" The marshal murmured. "What, are you _trying_ to make me look bad?"

" _Fuck you_ ," McCree spat. His breath was ragged, shallow, only stubbornness keeping his fading mind clinging to the present. His left arm throbbed with pain, every beat of his heart letting a little more blood trickle on to the floor. He was going to die. He was going to die and take the bastard with him.  He struggled, arm reaching for the marshal's throat.

_Whud!_ The sound of boots landing on the ground, and a second man's voice called out, gruff and husky. "Gabriel! Are you alright?"

A white man in rugged clothes walked up, looking concerned. McCree squinted as the sun gleamed off the silver star pinned on the outside of his coat. _Another_ marshal. Just his fucking luck.

"Yeah," The black marshal replied coolly, keeping McCree pinned in place. "Jack?"

"I'm fine. The other bandits jumped the train and rode off. The passengers are safe. Who's this guy?"

"Punk-ass shot himself in the arm. Thinks he's tough shit. Don't you, vaquero?" Gabriel grinned, yanking on McCree's hair.

McCree hissed, panting. The world flickered. Head swimming. Fuck. Shit. His lungs were burning.

"Don't kill him," Jack said, voice strange and distant. "He might have information."

The hand in his hair let go and McCree's knees buckled under his own weight. Heart thundering in his ears, he tried to reach out. Tried to grab something. Tried to breathe. No use. His eyes went dark, blood on his tongue, the scream of steel and steam sending him off to hell. _I'm dead._

 

"Heavy son of a gun."

Thick smell of dust and horses. Cicadas on the breeze. _I'm dead._

 Sounds of people; dim, distant.

"Help me tie him up. Don't want him fallin' off on us."

_I'm dead and they're going to bury me._

_Well, ain't that polite._

 

Slow, dizzy swaying movement. Two sets of hooves, clip-clopping in the dirt. Low voices, talking.

"You climbed the roof? You crazy bastard, Morrison!" Rough, honest laughter.

"The door was jammed."

His throat was so dry. Did the dead get thirsty? Maybe.

"Guess working with you is never boring."

"So, you think I'm interesting?"

"I didn't say that."

 

Dry scraping, cracked lips. A tight, squeezing feeling hung around his elbow. Couldn't feel his hand.

"Is he still breathing?"

"Yep."

"Damn."

Rough hands lifting him up. Shoulder to his chest, arms supporting his legs. Carrying.

_Like Pa used to…_

"Let's get him inside before the buzzards start showing up."

 

…

 

Morning light was streaming down on McCree's face when he awoke. He could hear birds singing outside. His brow furrowed as he licked his dry lips. Was he… dead? He couldn't tell. McCree tipped his chin down to look at the heavy blankets that covered him. They looked clean.

Huh.

Maybe he _was_ dead?

He tried to sit up, and a cacophony of pain jangled like the wrong side of a spur across his nerves. He grunted and fell back. Alright, now that was pretty damn indicative of life. McCree rubbed his eyes, and was confused when only one of his hands came up. He realized he couldn't feel his left hand- in fact, he couldn't feel anything past the elbow.

McCree flexed his arm. It hurt to lift it, a deep throbbing pain in the bones. He stared at where his hand should have been. It wasn't there. Instead, he was greeted with a bandaged stump that cut off just below the elbow. Memories of the shots that ripped through his arm bubbled to the surface of his mind.

His chest clenched, choked his breath, body shuddering with adrenaline. The pain was there, arm limp, red blood, his blood - everywhere - his blood…!

"You awake, vaquero?"

McCree jumped out of skin. He snapped his head to the source of the sound, eyes wide.

The black marshal loomed over his bed like a bad dream, standing just outside of the rays of morning light. His face was grim, dark eyes hooded by dark eyelids, staring down at McCree like the eyes of judgment itself. On his shoulder perched a barn owl, an unholy spirit, ominous and still.

 If McCree was dead, this was the devil come to claim his soul.

 

"What the fuck- what the hell do you want?!" McCree scrabbled backwards away from him, teetering on the edge of the bed. He winced as he bumped his stump, pain making his empty stomach lurch.

"Hold still."

The marshal grabbed his bandaged arm. McCree yelped, struggling against the iron grip of his fingers.

"Let- let go of me! Devil! _Brujo!_ "

The marshal clucked his tongue. "Is that any way to thank the man who saved your miserable life?" He looked the stump over then released it, apparently satisfied.

McCree clutched it to his chest, cradling it with his unscathed hand. He could feel his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He was shaking, vulnerable, defenseless. His eyes darted about the room, looking for a way out. "Where the hell am I?!"

"Safe, for now," the marshal sat down on a chair next to the bed with a grunt. "You've been asleep for about three days now. We had to cut your arm off, the bones were as good as shrapnel. I've been keeping you alive since then," he tilted his head, resting his chin on his hand thoughtfully. "I'm surprised you made it."

"What do you want," McCree chewed the inside of his cheek, wary as a wildcat. This man had damn near killed him and now he was saying that he nursed him back to life? Bullshit. "Who are you, dammit!"

" _¡Cállate, chamaco!_ "

McCree flinched.

 

"Santa María, do you ever stop running your mouth?" The marshal grumbled. His stony expression gave way to ire, full lips twisting into a scowl. "Let me spell it out for you, cowboy. You are _alone_ here. You have no guns, no friends, and no fucking luck."

He leaned in, looming over McCree's bed. "The only thing keeping you alive right now is my good graces, and I'll be the first to admit I'm not a patient man. So," He grabbed McCree's left elbow. "This is how it's gonna work. I'm going to ask you questions, and _you_ -" he squeezed, hard. McCree choked back a yelp. "- are going to answer them."

Tears beaded at the corner of McCree's eyes, he could feel the fingers digging into his severed bones. He panted, teeth gritted against the pain. The marshal's eyes stared into his own, alight with golden glints of hellfire. Demon. Witch. _Son of the Devil himself._

Someone opened the door and walked in. The grip lessened enough that McCree could catch his breath and blink away the tears of pain. He looked up and saw the white marshal carrying in a tray of food.

The white marshal slid his eyes over the tableau before him, then set the tray down on a nearby table.

"How long has he been awake, Gabriel?" He asked, carefully moving the tin pitcher of water.

"Not long," The black marshal - Gabriel _, of course_ \- replied smoothly, as if he hadn't just been squeezing the life out of McCree's arm. "Was just going to start asking him questions."

"Well," the white marshal huffed. "Food's on the stove if you're hungry."

Gabriel leaned back in the chair, tapping his lips thoughtfully. "What about this guy?" He gestured to McCree with a nod.

"I could take over for ya," The white marshal crossed over to stand behind Gabriel. He extended a finger to pet the barn owl's head. It blinked its eyes drowsily, shuffling on its perch. "Besides, Luna looks sleepy. You should put her to bed."

Gabriel grunted and got up. He shot a glance over his shoulder at McCree. "I'll be back, vaquero," he growled quietly, and stalked off, hips swaying. McCree stared at him with gritted teeth until the door slammed shut. He exhaled, fingers jittering with adrenaline.

 

Nearby, the white marshal finished messing with the tray of food and set an earthenware bowl of porridge in front of McCree. He sat down in the chair where Gabriel had been with a huff. McCree looked down at the bowl suspiciously. A thick dollop of dark syrup was swirled into the middle. He glanced back up at the marshal, squinting.

The marshal looked back at McCree. "What's the matter, kid? Don't like molasses?"

McCree scowled.

"The name's John Morrison. Most folks call me Jack. What's yours?"

The scowl deepened.

"How's your arm?" The marshal continued, his voice rough but conversational, despite the lack of any conversation. "My colleague, Reyes, he said it was pretty touch and go for a while. You're lucky you survived, y'know."

McCree's hackles rose. "That motherfuckin' devil is the reason I ain't got no arm in the first place!" He spat. "He shot me! With my own gun!"

"I know," Morrison said calmly. "He's also the reason you ain't dying of infection in some county jail cell. Now, eat up. Your oats are getting cold."

McCree glowered at him. He almost wanted to toss the bowl at those shitty blue eyes, but what good would that do him? He'd just get his ass kicked again. His stomach growled weakly. Those three days of pain and sleeping caught up with him like a freight train. Sullenly, McCree began eating.

Morrison sighed like an old dog. "There you go." He pressed his fingertips together, settling back in the chair. He ignored the acidic look that McCree gave him with his mouth full of oats, and poured out water for the two of them. McCree accepted the cup without thanks, still sore and resentful. Morrison didn't seem fazed.

 The man didn't look a hair over thirty, but he moved in a way that made McCree think of old soldiers. Then again, with the way his pale blond hair was shorn, and the way he kept his boots on the ground, he might've been one.

 

Morrison waited until McCree had finished eating before he spoke again. He cleared the empty bowl away, setting it back on the tray, and said "I've got an offer to make you."

"Your crew, the Deadlock gang - they ain't coming back for ya. So, here's how it's gonna play out. You're gonna give us the dirt on them, all your little hide-outs, what operations you're running. And you get to stay out of jail." He nodded his head at McCree, "Simple, right?"

"And if I don't?" McCree grumbled. "Y'all hacked off my fucking arm - why should I rat out my friends to you?"

"You do us a good turn, and we'll see about getting your arm replaced. I know some good doctors," Morrison replied. "Course, if you don't like my offer, I could always get Reyes to come back and deal with you."

McCree's stomach churned and the bruises in his arm flared up again, pain still fresh and bold in his mind. Which would he rather pick, the uncertain revenge of his former colleagues, or the very certain torture he'd already tasted? He sucked on his teeth, avoiding Morrison's eyes.

Morrison stood up, taking the tray with him. "I'll give you some time to think about it," he said gruffly. "Oh, and- if you try to run, the deal is off. We don't give third chances."

The door swung shut behind him, and McCree was alone.

 

At first, the solitude was welcome. It gave him some time to process what had happened; some time to work through the fear that had threatened to drown him when Reyes had shown up. He panicked, talked himself through it, calmed himself down enough to realize he needed to piss. There was a pan under the bed, but undoing buttons with only one hand turned out to be harder than expected.

God _damn_ , he'd lost his fucking _arm_. McCree stared at the stump, anger bubbling like tar in his gut, until he couldn't stand the sight of it anymore and looked away. They'd taken his boots too, he noticed bitterly. Most of his clothes were laundered and hung up on the back of a chair; his boots, socks, and hat nowhere to be found. They'd left him in his long-johns at least, preserving what little dignity he had left.

He mulled about the little room they'd put him in, restless and needing to stretch. He felt like a newborn colt on his feet, weak and wobbling from the time he'd spent down. Stubbornness kept him standing as he looked about. The bed tucked into the corner next to the window with a little wooden bedside table. There was a half-empty bottle of laudanum on it - McCree downed a gulp for the pain in his arm. On the other end of the room was a taller table with a wash-basin and pitcher, along with a dingy square of mirror hanging above it.

He examined himself in the mirror. "Jesse,” he told his reflection, “you look like shit."

 And he did. He'd slept for three days and he still had bags under his bloodshot eyes. Bruises and scrapes from the fight still lingered, giving his brown skin a sickly yellow-green tinge. Unbrushed hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, and cowlicks stuck out all over the place from his tossing. Somebody had re-set his nose while he was out, too. He dabbed at his face gingerly with the damp wash cloth, raked his hand through his hair, and sighed.

"Mighty fine situation you got yourself in, huh?" He muttered. "Dumb-ass motherfucker, you are. 'Hey fellas, let's rob a train!'" He pitched his voice up, pumping his fist with mock enthusiasm. He shuffled to the side, dropping his voice into a bewildered drone."'Gee, I dunno Jesse. Aren't them loco-motives protected?'"

"'Pshaw!'-" He tossed his head back flippantly. "'No more protected than a stage-coach! More money in 'em too!'

'What if there's marshals or army?'

'What's a couple of hay-chewin' marshals to us! We're the _Deadlock Rebels!_ ' Fuckin' smart-ass cocky piece of horse _shit_ -" McCree clawed at his hair, gritting his teeth in frustration. " _Urgh!_ "

"Aunt Luísa was right. I'd only get myself shot down or strung up hanging out with those bastards," he groaned. "I should've just- just listened better in Sunday School!  Joined a ranch or found a job up North- hell, I shoulda joined the army! But _nooooo_." He pin-wheeled his arms, grandstanding in the empty room. "I'm Jesse McCree and I'm gonna be a famous outlaw! Gonna be the rootin'-tootin'-est sharpshooter this side o' the Rio Grande!"

 

McCree crumpled in on himself, hugging his left arm to his chest with his right. It still hurt, dull and throbby and swollen, even with the laudanum. He felt small. Crushed. A doll handled too roughly with all the stitching undone on one side.

 "I'll never be able to count my fingers to ten again, now," he said and choked down a sobbing laugh. He snuffled, wiped his nose and patted his cheek. "Okay, c'mon now. Don't do that."

Sighing into his hand he flopped backwards on the bed, ignoring the coils that dug into his spine.  He closed his eyes and held still. A deep, suffocating feeling of sadness welled up in his chest. He was alone and broken down. The tears couldn't be held back anymore. McCree scrunched himself up into a ball on the little bed, sobs punctuating the silence.

Eventually, he cried himself out. He wiped his face, drank some water, and breathed. McCree stared out the window by his bed.

 The sun had shifted, buttery morning light turned into the white relentless heat of midday. He watched the breeze ruffle through the long prairie grass, distant mountains silhouetted in blue and lilac against a clear summer sky. A bumblebee droned lazily past his window. He watched it bury itself into a harebell, striped body wiggling as it ate. It probably didn't have a care in the world.

McCree let out a long, heavy sigh.

"Alright. You've got two options," he said to the bee. He held out his thumb, counting. "One, snitch out the gang, stay out of jail and get whole load o' enemies who know your face. Two, don't cooperate and get dead quicker, but not before being tortured by that- _brujo_ motherfucker."

"So, which is it?" McCree asked the sky. "Uphold your honor as a thief and die like a criminal? Or live to fight another day like a coward?"

A puffy white raincloud drifted by overhead. It didn't answer his question. Pain flared up in his stump. He grits his teeth against it, holding his breath until it eased into the uncomfortable pulse of his heartbeat. Exhaustion pawed at his mind, pain and fear having drained him. God, he wished he had a smoke.

McCree gave in to fitful sleep under the noon sun, too tired to fret over his future.

 

…

 

It didn't take long for McCree to break under isolation.

Morrison brought him food and medicine in the late afternoon, his bedside manner less than welcoming in its brisk practicality, but more than welcome compared to the alternative. Reyes lurked behind him, leaning against the door frame and smoking. 

Morrison didn't talk to McCree beyond the odd grunt and ambivalent answer to McCree's questions.

 ("Where am I?"

 "Colorado."

" _Where_ in Colorado?"

A grunt.

"Tell me where the hell I am!"

"Up shit creek without a paddle, son."

 Reyes laughed from the doorway.)

McCree asked for a smoke. Morrison asked if he'd made up his mind yet. McCree hesitated. Morrison left, saying he could have as much tobacco as he liked when he talked. McCree let out a frustrated noise through clenched teeth. He watched Reyes snake his arm around Morrison's waist through the closing door. Weird.

 

He ate, slept, rambled to himself, half-delirious on laudanum. Evening fell and Morrison came back with a bowl of supper. McCree tried again to pry for information from his captor.

"So, marshal, what's going on between you and tall, dark and terrifyin'?" McCree asked in his most charming and conversational voice.

"We're partners," Morrison answered, blunt as a rock.

"Partners, huh?"

"We're equals. Always have been."

McCree quirked an eyebrow. "How'd y'all meet? You don't see many white marshals expressing that kind of sentiment towards black marshals. Hell, you don't see many black marshals at all."

"All men are equal under the Constitution of the United States," Morrison replied. There was a hint more steel in his gruff tone. Struck some sort of nerve, huh?

"Yeah, and some are more equal than others," McCree said, eyeing Morrison slyly.

Morrison gave him a stony look.

"Hey, just sayin'!" McCree shrugged his shoulders. "A mutt like me ain't got it much better this far from the southern border."

"You're Mexican?" Morrison almost seemed eager to change the subject. Almost. He was harder to read than a latin bible, but McCree was so desperate for conversation he almost didn't care.

"Not wholly," He admitted. "Lil' bit of everything in me. My Ma was mestizo, but my Pa- shoot. All kinds on that side! Spanish, Scottish, Native - think he mentioned a bit of Moorish too."

"Huh."

"Yup. But don't get me wrong, we all went to Church just the same." McCree twirled his spoon in his hand, an old habit. "Now my cousins though, they're mixed like me but you wouldn't guess it from looking at 'em. Uncle Jimmy's white as white can get. Almost as white as you, actually!"

"Ahuh," Morrison's passing curiosity was all but dried up. "You sure talk a lot, kid."

"Yessir. Always did like to chew the fat."

"You gonna say anything relevant?"

"Now hold on, can't a man enjoy a friendly conversation over a meal without being extorted?"

Morrison exhaled through his nose. "Gonna take that as 'no'."

He got up and left, despite McCree's pleading protests. The door snapped shut, leaving McCree alone and frustrated again. He was beginning to hate the sound of the door shutting as much as the men themselves. He downed another swig of laudanum, grumpily settling into drug-heavy sleep.

 

The next day was much the same as the first. McCree woke up to Reyes looming over him and nearly pissed himself. Reyes checked his arm again and replaced the brown blood-caked bandages with fresh ones. McCree's stomach turned more at the sight of the stump than the pain to the point where he couldn't bring himself to eat anything.

"You got a weak stomach, cowboy?" Reyes asked in Spanish, smirking as he bound the stump up. "It's just meat."

"It's _my_ meat-" McCree protested, until he was cut off by the bile rising in his throat. He gulped against the nausea.

"Hey, don't puke on me, you bastard."

"Maybe I will," McCree groaned. He wiped the sweat from his beard, shivering.

"You puke on my boots and I'll make you clean it up with your mouth," Reyes growled. McCree didn't doubt that he would. He swallowed it down with a groan.

Reyes left. McCree dozed until the queasiness left, watched the bugs and the birds out in the grass outside his window. He paced when he felt strong enough, whistled every song he knew to stave off boredom, argued with himself until he felt sick again.

 

Morrison brought lunch. McCree tried to talk to him again, but no avail. Morrison didn't even stick around long enough for McCree to annoy him. McCree was left to pace and hum and doze and agonize all over again.

"Maybe- maybe you should just tell 'em," he muttered to himself, scratching his head. "They're mean as hell, but they fed you and kept you from bleedin' out. Would the Deadlocks have done that?" He doubted it. Most of them were too selfish, the rest too dumb to know how to keep a man alive without an arm.

He hissed through his teeth, humming and see-sawing on the chair. "You can't just go betrayin' your friends like that, Jesse. Sure they're a pack of bastards, but they're _your_ pack of bastards." But the words sounded hollow even to him.

 Memories of all the times they'd argued over petty things rose to his mind; the time someone had tried to steal his share of the loot, the bar fights that had only been resolved by ganging up on an interloper. Even the good times didn't seem so great from where he was sitting.

McCree paced some more, moved from the chair to the window, from the window to the bed, ghosts of the past following his every move. His aunt's face came to mind, her brows knitted in concern, chewing on a lock of curly black hair as she chided him for being out too long and too late.

_"You gonna get shot up, Jesse! You gonna end up hung by the neck and your Mama and Papa are gonna cry in Heaven while the Devil comes to take your soul for bein' such a wayward boy! You wanna make your dead Mama cry, huh? You damn fool of a boy! The Lord's gonna make you hurt for hurtin' others."_

McCree groaned and rolled over, trying to block out the voice with a pillow. Shame crept up over his spine like a chill as he remembered the argument he'd had with his aunt and uncle when he was seventeen and thought he knew everything. The ranch and little village had felt too small for his wandering soul, and where was he now? This had to be punishment for it. This had to be his due for every dollar he stole and every life he'd snuffed out. All sins eventually caught up with the sinner.

"Damnit, Jesse! If this ain't a sign for you to change your ways, what is?" McCree upbraided himself, tugging on his ear. He scrunched his face up, shook his head, and sighed.

"Alright. I'll tell 'em," he announced, staring up at the ceiling.

"Oh good," Morrison's voice called out unexpectedly, making McCree start.

"Jesus shittin' Christ-!" McCree gasped. "How long have _you_ been there!"

"Just came in," Morrison said, placing down the tray of food on the table. He hunkered down on his haunches, eye-level with McCree. "Now, start talking."

 

…

 

Over the course of the evening, McCree divulged every bit of dirt on the Deadlocks that Morrison and Reyes picked him for. Their hide-outs, their previous stunts, how many there were of them, where they drank, who they slept with, everything down to the names and faces of those with the real brains behind the operation.

"Most of them are just hoodlums and dogs, but there's a couple who are smart enough to be a danger," McCree explained as Morrison scratched down the names in a little journal. "We never had no official leader, but me and a couple fellas, we knew we were a cut above the rest of 'em."

Reyes scoffed. "You've got a petty fifty dollar bounty on your head, McCree. You're barely a huckleberry above a persimmon."

Morrison asked, "What are their names? What makes them a danger?"

McCree scowled at Reyes but continued. "There's a French fella who calls himself 'Gauche' - 'cos he's left-handed. From New Orleans, if I recall. He's a mean bastard, all smiles and charm right up until he shoots ya in the gut. I seen him kill men over a poor game of cards."

"So he's got an itchy trigger finger," Reyes said dismissively.

"He's clever enough to know how to rob a bank without nobody seein' him," McCree replied. "He knows how to work an ambush too. Don't underestimate him."

"Noted," Morrison said. "And the others?"

"Another guy goes by the name of Anderson. He's just a stone-cold killer. Used to be a bounty hunter, but I guess he got to likin’ killin’ too much to just do it for money. I think," McCree pursed his lips and frowned in thought. "There was a warrant out for him in… I dunno, Wyoming or Dakota? He came down South to throw 'em off the scent."

"Anderson. Walter Anderson?" Morrison asked.

"Yeah, that's the guy," McCree said.

"We've been chasin' that son of a gun for nigh on two years," Morrison growled. "Figures he'd fall in with a gang to hide his trail."

"Well, how about that," Reyes chuckled. McCree felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle at the sound. "Looks like you're not a complete waste. Maybe we'll make something of you yet."

"Aim to please," McCree muttered grudgingly.

 

"You held up your end of the bargain, kid," Morrison said, closing his notebook. He fished a cigarette out of his pocket and offered it to McCree. "Now it's our turn."

McCree accepted it gratefully, lighting it on a nearby candle flame. Hot smoke filled his lungs, burning familiar and comforting. Shit, he'd needed this.

"I gotta telegram this to the others." Morrison waved his notes as he stood up. "Gotta ride out into town tomorrow morning. I'll send the call out to our doctor too, see you get that arm replaced."

"Y'all aren't gonna stitch on some other fella's hand on to me with voodoo, are ya?" McCree asked suspiciously, leaning away from the table. "I don't want no dead man's hand."

Reyes smirked, chuckling under his breath as if McCree had just said the funniest thing.

"Mechanical prosthetic," Morrison said, blunt as a hammer. "State of the art, German made. I've seen her work, she's good at what she does."

"She?" McCree asked incredulously.

"Yep," Morrison said, and left. McCree stared after him, baffled.

 "¿Es siempre así?"He asked Reyes, gesturing to Morrison's back.

"Oh, sí," Reyes replied with a soft laugh. "Siempre. Como un burro."

"¿En serio?"

"I can still hear you!" Morrison called back. Reyes laughed louder, grinning as Morrison shut the door.

 

McCree shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was weird seeing Reyes so relaxed, even if he still looked like he could murder a man sooner than shake his hand. McCree chewed the butt of his cigarette pensively.

"So, what’re y'all anyway?" He asked slowly. "You fellas seem a might bit too organized for marshals. What's the deal? You mercenaries or government or what?"

Reyes raised his eyebrows, a curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Surprised you picked up on it, vaquero. You're right, we're not _just_ marshals."

McCree made a face. _No shit._

"There's more to the world than the United States," Reyes said. He leaned back, arms folded across his chest. "Lots of other places where goons like you think they can get to the top by stepping on others. Me and Jack, we're of a mind that those who stand on others deserve to get kicked down again."

"Sounds real noble," McCree said sarcastically. "Restorin' order to the world, one asshole at a time."

"Oh, we do more than give bandítos the deaths they earned," Reyes replied. "But I don't have to talk it up. You'll see it soon enough yourself."

"Oh yeah?" McCree asked, snorting smoke. "What, you plan on keeping me around?"

"Call me sentimental, but I _hate_ seeing a waste of talent," Reyes purred, voice low and gravelly. McCree felt another shiver dance up his spine. "Even if it is on coyotes like you."

McCree rubbed the back of his neck, willing the prickling to stop. "Talent, huh?"

"I know what you can do with a six-shooter. I know what you _could_ do with it." Reyes' eyes were burning into his own, candlelight dancing over the liquid black like embers. "You don't like killing, but you can do it when you need to. You like to fight, but you ain't found a _cause_ for yourself."

McCree nearly felt hypnotized by those eyes and that voice, smoldering, intoxicating, deadly. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff with the man's hand on his back that could either push him off or pull him back from the edge. There was a power there, something dark lurking beneath the surface that gnawed at McCree's mind, even as Reyes sat still across from him at the table.

"You could be a good man," Reyes murmured. McCree shuddered. "We could _make you_ a good man."

McCree finally broke eye contact and stared down at the whorls of the wooden table.

"Huh. Sounds like the Devil's offering to save my soul," McCree said with failing bravado. It was a weak comeback - Reyes had gotten under his skin too well. Was he that transparent? Or had Reyes seen into his heart, read his hopes and fears back to him like a sermon?

"Hmm," Reyes hummed, looking him over. "We'll see if your soul is worth saving."

He stood, pushing in the chair behind him. McCree watched Reyes' hips sway out of the corner of his eye as he walked to the door. There was a hollow, gnawing feeling  in his gut, like some hunger he had forgotten until now.

"Goodnight, vaquero," Reyes murmured and disappeared into the night, leaving McCree alone once again with the burden of his guilt.

 

…

 

Morrison was gone most of the next day. He returned around supper with good news and a pack of cigarillos for McCree. Morrison explained that Doctor Ziegler would be arriving in the next weeks. Until then, McCree was allowed out of his room to wander around the house.

"Don't make sense to keep you locked up if you're on our side now," Morrison said.

McCree almost bit back with something sarcastic, but Reyes' eyes on him made him hold his tongue. _We could make you a good man._ The words stuck in the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn't stop worrying. McCree thanked Morrison for the cigarillos instead, and asked if there was a porch he could sit out on while he smoked.

Morrison lead him out through the farmhouse to the back porch. The sight of the wide open plains stretching out beyond him felt like an embrace to McCree. He sighed, breathing in sweet summer night air. The wild flowers and long grass bent their heads, swaying a slow dance in the breeze. He hadn't realized how badly being cooped up was weighing him down.

"Pretty night out," Morrison said, leaning against a beam.

"Yeah," McCree agreed.

Sitting down on the wooden bench, he fumbled for the cigarillos, popping one between his teeth and clumsily lighting a match one handed. He puffed in the rich smoke, the guilt and fear he'd been stewing in for days melting away. McCree exhaled through his nose, billowing smoke. Crickets and night birds chirped quietly in the distance. Wind rustled through the dry grass, puffy little clouds sailing high above in the night sky, darting among the stars and moonlight.

"Pretty as a picture," McCree sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. A comfortable silence settled over the two men as they looked out to the horizon.

Morrison scratched the back of his neck and made a sound like a tired dog. He turned back to face the warm lights of the house and gave a look to McCree.

"You gonna be alright here on your own?"

McCree stretched his arms and leaned back. "Don't you worry about me, marshal. I ain't gonna run off under your nose," he said with a lazy smile. "Just enjoyin' the view."

"Alright," Morrison said. He patted McCree's good shoulder as he headed inside. McCree snorted at the oddly paternal gesture, waving the man off.

 He settled back in to watch the sky and smoke in peace. It wasn't quite freedom, he knew it. But he had tobacco, a full belly, and a view of the stars. Small comforts like these were what kept a man alive. Now, if only he had some drink and someone pretty to share it with…

 

McCree smoked thoughtfully, letting the night-time noises wash over him.  Far out in the night, a coyote howled at the waning moon, a thin and eerie sound. Crickets and cicadas buzzed nearby, and something in the brush made a strange creaking trill that he couldn't identify. Behind him he could hear the low voices of Morrison and Reyes in conversation, warm and human with each other.

He couldn't hear the words that they were saying exactly, but the tone carried well enough outside the open windows. Reyes was telling a joke or story - probably about him, McCree thought - and Morrison was listening attentively. He heard Morrison laugh, a breathy _ha-ha_ sound that somehow suited the stoic man. Reyes chuckled too, and said something in a lower voice that was nearly lost on the wind.

McCree rolled the cigarillo between his fingertips, wondering if this was eavesdropping. He thought back to Morrison's "partners" comment, and the way Reyes had laughed when McCree asked if Morrison was always so blunt. They were definitely close with each other. Reyes had mentioned they had served in the army together during the War of '47, saved each other's asses a few times. They'd been a team ever since. _Soldiers_ , McCree rolled his eyes, _they're in a world of their own._

The voices behind him drifted closer, accompanied by foot-steps. McCree half-listened, idly mulling over fleeting thoughts as he watched the clouds roll over the moon.

"Got real boring here while you were gone."

"I missed you too." That was Morrison's voice - but, soft and genuine. McCree blinked.

"Oh, c'mon Jack-" The protest was cut off by a low gasp. _Clap._ Morrison grunted - had Reyes slapped him? He was laughing.

"C'mere," Reyes commanded, voice thick and sultry. The voices died down, faint rustling and loud breaths left in their wake.

McCree thought his eyebrows would pop off his head when he realized what the damp mouth-sounds meant. He pressed his fingers to his lips, hunching over with his eyes wide. _Ho-ly shit_. He didn't know whether to laugh or feel alarmed. He stifled back a snort, coughing on smoke. _Well, that sure explained things._ It sure explained the way Reyes seemed to loosen up whenever Morrison was around.

" _Soldiers,_ " McCree wheezed, shaking his head. Go figure, huh.

 

He wondered if they realized he was still outside. Probably not, he thought as he heard Morrison stutter out a groan. Hell's bells, no wonder the man had been keen to leave McCree to his own devices. But - _Reyes_. Really? Was Morrison foolhardy or had Reyes put some kind of hex on him? Or had Morrison's soulful blue-eyes charmed the living evil out of Reyes to make him sweet.

McCree tried to picture the grim man flushed and tender, something that to his dismay came all too easily to mind. Morrison's hands on Reyes hips and ass, the two of them grinding and kissing against the wall…

McCree bit his lip, ears burning faintly. He stood up abruptly, heading indoors to escape the sounds. He'd already heard too much for comfort. It was one thing to indulge in his own vices alone, another thing entirely to bear witness to others'. He shut the door none too quietly behind him, satisfied when he was rewarded with a beat of wary silence from the next room.

"I'll be headin' to bed now!" McCree called out to the house, a little hint of mischief in his voice. "See y'all in the morning."

He retreated to his room, shaking his head and stifling both smiles and grimaces, mind reeling with the revelation. Never in a million years would he have guessed that the folks to make him question his deeds would be a black-and-white couple of queen marshals.

"Like I can talk," McCree muttered, scratching his beard as he settled down to sleep. It was strange, knowing this private fact about them. Like seeing a parishioner outside of church with a beer, it added a surprising dimension of humanity. His mind drifted, thoughts of the two marshals and how tender they sounded with each other mixing with memories of his own boyhood brushes with love. He dreamt of a strong pair of hands holding his own, pulling him down to lie beside a warm body that squirmed with laughter when the newly grown hair on their faces tickled.

It was the first night in a long while without nightmares.

 

…

 

Morrison and Reyes were as good as their word, and a week later the doctor arrived, as promised. McCree was half-dozing on the porch in the afternoon sun when the silhouette of a one-horse open carriage came in to view on the horizon. He blinked drowsily, chewing on a stalk of wild barley, watching the carriage approach.

"Hey!" McCree called back into the house. "Were y'all expecting company?"

"What?" Morrison shouted distantly.

"I said, were y'all expecting company?"

"I can't hear you!"

"Land sakes-" McCree grumbled, spitting out the piece of straw. He turned his head to yell through the open window. "THERE'S SOMEONE ON A COACH OUTSIDE."

Reyes opened the door next to McCree suddenly, making him jump in his seat. Reyes ignored the blue streak of curses McCree wheezed, and squinted towards the horizon, lips pursed.  He stared at the carriage and its driver, eyebrows furrowed. Then paused, surprise flitting across his face. Reyes put his fingers to his lips and whistled, loud and shrill. The man driving the coach shouted something distantly in greeting and waved. Reyes waved back. McCree stared at his face, unnerved by the sinister smirk.

"Who's that comin'?" He asked, suspicious.

"Friends," Reyes said, resting his hands on his hips as he watched the coach ramble along the dirt path.

McCree balked, glancing between the coach and Reyes. "I'm surprised a man like you knows the word," he muttered under his breath, not feeling like taunting death openly.

As the coach drew closer, the driver came into focus. He was - enormous. Which was saying something, McCree thought, eyeing up the bay-colored draft horse that pulled the carriage along. McCree guessed that he had to be at least six feet tall, at least. That number climbed to six-and-a-half and then seven, and then jumped to eight when the driver stepped down from his seat.

He was absolutely huge, with shoulders like eaves and arms that probably could raise a barn all by themselves. His white-blond hair and beard looked almost the texture of dandelion fluff, and a big scar had blinded his left eye to a milky-blue that stood out against the warm pink of his skin. McCree gaped in awe, then felt his jaw hit the floor when Reyes went over to shake the huge man's hand.

"Gabriel!" He exclaimed, accent jangling over the consonants. "It is so good to see you!"

"Reinhardt-" Reyes grunted as a huge hand came down on his back, clapping him in a way that could possibly be considered affectionate by grizzly bears. Still, Reyes kept smiling, which was the strangest part.

"It has been - wie sagt mann? - a dog's age! You are looking very well," Reinhardt continued cheerily as he opened the carriage door, taking luggage out with one hand and offering the other for support from the passenger.

Had McCree bothered to scrape his jaw off the floor, it was likely he would have only dropped it again as a pretty white woman with blond hair climbed out and promptly embraced Reyes in a familial hug.

"It's good to see you too, Angela," Reyes said, patting her back once.

"Oh, Gabi!" She practically sang, squeezing Reyes as if he was a long lost relative come home. She fussed, kissing him twice on each cheek and grabbing his hands with her own. "You grew a beard! Meine güte - but it suits you!"

Reyes laughed, indulging her flittering and helping Reinhardt pick up the rest of the luggage. McCree stared, agog. He had never seen Reyes _smile_ so much. It was- it was downright unnerving, is what it was. Damn, though, if he didn't look halfway handsome with a smile instead of a scowl. McCree scratched his neck awkwardly, retreating further into his bench.

 Morrison came out to join the fray at last, beaming like the moon in the millpond. Reinhardt and Angela embraced him too. Maybe _they_ were actually related? They all had blond hair… McCree squinted, trying to pick out any family resemblance. There wasn't much of any, apart from white, blond, fairly tall and awfully friendly with each other.

 The group laughed, talked, hugged, and bustled to get the guests and their luggage indoors, leaving McCree feeling distinctly out of the loop. He sat on the bench, eyeing them as Reyes and Morrison walked past. A shadow loomed over him as the big man - Reinhardt - came up the steps.

"We have not yet met, friend!" He grinned at McCree, looking him over with his good eye. He extended a hand. "I am Reinhardt Wilhelm. What is your name?"

"Uh-"McCree hesitated, but shook the hand, noting how small his was in comparison. "Name's McCree. Jesse McCree. Pleasure to meetcha Mr. Vilhelm."

"Good to meet you too, friend!" Reinhardt said forcefully, nearly shaking his wrist off. He guffawed. "You have a strong handshake, this is good. Looks like you have also seen the heat of battle!"

McCree wiggled his stump at the man. "Shoot, what gave it away?" He asked, Reinhardt's grin infecting him with a smile of his own. He was like a charging bull of good cheer.

"You must be the man Jack mentioned," the woman piped up, having come back outside. She squeezed past Reinhardt's elbow to get a better look at him. She stared at his missing arm appraisingly, with a scrutiny that made McCree feel self-conscious about not combing his hair. He ran his fingers through it, tugging at the knots.

"The one-armed cowboy? That's me," he said. "Did Morrison also mention how I lost it?"

"He did not," she said, drawing her lips into a thin line. She held out her hand for him to shake. "Dr. Angela Ziegler, I'll be restoring your arm."

"That's a big promise, ma'am," McCree replied. He glanced down at their hands as they shook, marveling a little at her long pale fingers and clean nails. _Must be from a rich family_ , he thought. "I gotta say I'm a mite bit skeptical, no offense to yourself."

"I am used to skepticism in my line of work," Dr. Ziegler said, firmly squeezing his hand with a strength he hadn't expected. "I assure you, you are in good hands."

McCree cleared his throat, the conviction in her voice leaving him off balance. A lady sawbones with a handshake like a vice was promising to give him back his arm - he couldn't think of anything stranger. He rubbed the back of his neck again with his hand and gestured with his stump.

"Well, shoot, miss. I'll hold you to it."

 

…

 

It would be a few days since their arrival before Dr. Ziegler approached him again about the surgery. She had spent the last day preparing a room in the house for it, a process which apparently took a bucket of soap-water and a gallon of white vinegar. The smell of it on her stung McCree's nose.

"I wanted to talk to you about the requirements and what you should expect," Dr. Ziegler said, sitting down next to him on the bench outdoors where he spent most of his afternoons.

"Requirements?" McCree echoed.

"For the surgery."

"I didn't know there was anythin' _required_ of me to get myself stitched up, miss," he replied.

"It is just some simple precautions to prevent complications during the operation," she explained. "And please, call me Doctor."

McCree chewed the inside of his cheek, looking at her askance. "Alright, doc. What do I gotta do?"

She smiled at him gratefully, and then continued. "You'll need to fast for twelve hours prior to it, to prevent vomiting. Water is permitted, but no alcohol."

"What- Twelve hours?! That's near half a day!" His jaw dropped.

"You must only have your last meal in the early evening and then refrain from eating the next morning after you wake," she said gently. "It is not so bad."

"Alright," he conceded. "But why no alcohol? I always thought whisky was good for that sorta thing."

"Alcohol _does_ dull pain, but we will be using something much stronger on you. If you drank and used this drug at the same time, it could likely kill you."

"Oh," McCree huffed. "What're you usin'?"

"Morphine," she said. "You will be unconscious for much of the surgery."

"Not sure if I should be relieved about that," McCree muttered. "Last time I got knocked out I lost my arm."

Dr. Ziegler frowned, fists clenched in her lap like she was reigning herself in. She inhaled a sharp hiss through her teeth. "Jack… informed me about the incident. I cannot say I approve, but I am not here to stir up regrets," she said calmly. "I am here to restore your arm. And I will do that to the best of my ability."

 

"Y'know, you keep saying that. 'Restore my arm' and stuff., McCree licked his teeth and sniffed. "I ain't even sure how you're gonna do that. And where in Sam Hill are you gonna get a fake arm anyhow?"

She opened her mouth, then paused. A conspiratory look grew on her face. "... Would you like to see the prosthetic?" She asked in a low voice.

McCree raised his eyebrows. "… Sure."

There were actually several prosthetics, all intricate pieces of metal and machinery in varying sizes, stored in a padded suitcase. Most of them were in pieces, to be assembled when needed. The uncovered joints on them looked a bit like the workings of a steam engine, but with the scale of a pocket watch. McCree was completely out of his depth.

Dr. Ziegler beamed at him as she showed them off. "Wunderschön, nö? They are new models that my friend made. Masterworks of engineering." She sighed dreamily, running a finger along one of the exposed pistons. "I'll be fitting you with one that is proportional in length. It will be heavy and growing accustomed to it will take time, but your wrist and hand should be fully mobile."

McCree gave a low whistle of disbelief. "Well, saddle my back and call me a horse! Y'all are serious - you're gonna give me a metal arm."

Without prompting, Dr. Ziegler began explaining in great detail how the prosthetic would be attached to his existing nerves and bone, allowing McCree to move it because of reasons that completely flew over his head. The stream of words washed over him like a summer's breeze, hazying through his mind in one ear and out the other.

 He was too busy staring at the pieces in front of him, the metal gleaming dimly in the afternoon light. He'd always been fond of the routine of taking his revolver to pieces, cleaning and oiling it, then putting it all back together good as new. McCree ran his thumb over the little clockwork pistons in the knuckles of one of them. Seemed like it would be hell to clean.

"Scuse me, ma'am?" McCree interrupted. "Will this here contraption be detachable once you put it on me?"

"Ah, no." Dr. Ziegler shook her head. "The inner mechanisms may suffer wear over time, and certain parts will need maintenance - but it will be fixed to your bones. It won't come off once it is on."

"Huh. Well, what about if it gets rusty?"

"The prosthetic is entirely made out of stainless steel - it should not rust too readily," Dr. Ziegler explained. "Once it is attached, there will be a longer period of adjustment. I'll be able to teach you how to fully maintain and clean it while you undergo your physiotherapy."

McCree raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and nodded. "Seems like you've thought of everything. Alright doc, I'll trust you know what you're doin'."

 

…

 

McCree ate his last supper at the table with the others. It was meat and potato stew, with shredded pickled cabbage that Reinhardt had brought with him in jars. It was awfully sour, and Reinhardt laughed when McCree grimaced over his first bite of it.

"Never had Sauerkraut before? It takes some getting used to, but you know the saying goes: _Sauer macht lustig!_ "

"And what does that mean?" McCree asked as he swallowed his mouthful, smacking his lips at the vinegary after-taste. Across the table, Reyes was smirking at him with barely contained mirth. He noticed too late that Reyes had refused the sauerkraut. _Bastard._

"It means "Sour makes-", ahh.." Reinhardt frowned, his bushy white eyebrows knitting together in thought. He turned to Dr. Ziegler who was sitting beside him. "Angela, was heisst lustig auf Englisch?"

"It's "funny" isn't it?" She replied.

"It's a funny expression alright," McCree half grumbled, tangling another lump of cabbage on his fork and dipping it into his gravy to see if that would make it any easier to eat. He'd never been one for wasting food, even if it tasted horrible. Years of being an outlaw had numbed his tongue to all but rot. The thick fatty gravy took the sting off the vinegar, and McCree swallowed his second mouthful without feeling like his whole face was going to pucker.

 Around him, the conversation had shifted, the four old friends talking about acquaintances and news since they had last seen each other. Normally, McCree would try to at least get a word in edgeways, ask questions or reply to stories. Not tonight. This was his last meal before Dr. Ziegler got to work on him. The anticipation weighed heavy on his tongue, stifling all his words and making the food just that bit harder to swallow. He idly tried to think of what his last meal had been before he boarded that train. He couldn't remember.

"I received a letter just before we left New York," Dr. Ziegler was telling Reyes. "Winston and his daughter had arrived in Shanghai a few weeks ago, from what I could tell. I suppose they must already be on that ship by now."

"Possibly," Reyes shrugged over his drink. "You know how those monkeys love sightseeing."

Dr. Ziegler rolled her eyes at him. "You're still giving him grief over that book?"

"Somebody has to keep you all on your feet," he replied with a grin. "Jack 'Corn Ears' Morrison might be able to inspire you and all that shit, but I make sure you do the work."

"Hard-ass," Morrison retorted fondly.

 

McCree chewed, feeling like he was looking in on these people through a window. They talked like a family, over and under each other, arguing one second and laughing the next as the conversation bounced back and forth over his head. He was a stranger here. A chunk of potato got caught in his throat and he coughed into his fist.

"Are you alright?" Dr. Ziegler asked, her small, firm hand suddenly on his shoulder.

"Fine," McCree waved her off, drinking deeply to avoid her worried blue-eyed gaze. He could still feel her eyes on him even as he went back to eating. His melancholy thoughts had already dulled his senses, he found out to his dismay when the food went down but tasted nothing.

Reyes was harder to avoid, sitting across from him with his dark brown eyes nearly turned black in the dim light. "Lost your appetite, vaquero?"

"Don't wanna be too weighed down for tomorrow," McCree replied, feigning his usual sardonic smile. He pushed his plate away and stood up from the table. He nodded towards Dr. Ziegler, still not meeting her eyes. "I'll seeya tomorrow bright an' early, doc. G'night."

 

McCree chased sleep like a wild hare. Just when he thought he had it, it slipped out of his grasp, leaving only dusty half-dreams and jumbled memories of the whistling train, his aunt's face, the muzzle of his revolver burning hot against his wrist before the shot thundered, the smell of prairie grass and leather and horse in his nose. Before he knew it, dawn had come and he was wiping the night-time sweat from his face with his hand.

A year passed. He was still sitting in that room, dry-mouthed. He blinked and he was seated on the table, Dr. Ziegler in starched white shirt and pants, scrubbing her hands with boiling water. She washed her hands until they looked scalded.

 The flash of light on steel caught his eye - the scalpels all lined neat and blazing silver in the morning light. His skin crawled as he stared at them. Their razor edges would soon be pulling the skin away from his bones, the gleam seemed to promise. McCree only realized he was clenching his teeth when his jaw began to ache. He stared up at the ceiling, lying on his back.

"Count backwards from ten, please," Dr. Ziegler's voice was calm as she threaded the syringe needle into the vein on his severed arm. It pinched briefly, then everything seemed to blur out into warm water.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven..." His own voice seemed distant. McCree sunk into the darkness with relief. He couldn't feel a thing.

 

…

 

_Slow breathing. His chest rises, falls._

_A low ache in his side seethes. Stiff shoulders. He hears voices, murmurs in the distance and then another, close, clear, loud. McCree's mind is still foggy with memory. A pale face swims above him as his eyes flutter._

"Angela..?"

_He tries to reach out. Rub his eyes. His arms strain but don't move. Rope chafes at his right wrist._ _Where the hell is he--_

 

Cold water hit his face, slapping him into consciousness. McCree spat, swore, shook himself like a dog and blinked the water from his eyes. Reality caught up with him, all at once.

He was in Japan, not Colorado. He had two arms, one metal, one flesh, both bound behind his back. The wound he'd gotten from the fight was bandaged. His shirt was missing.

A dozen or so locals surrounded him, dressed somber as a funeral. He'd been propped up on his knees with strong rope binding his arms together like rigging on a ship. And standing in front of him with an empty bucket in hand and a look of pure disdain on his face was the fella who had stabbed him in the bar.

McCree let out a dry bark of a laugh. Here he was; wounded prisoner, yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations (for those who want them):**  
>  tu mujer = your wife  
> ¡Hijos de chacales!¡El diablo reclamará sus almas! = Sons of jackals! The devil will take your souls!  
> vaquero = cowboy  
> brujo = hispanic word for 'witch', but has different cultural connotations  
> ¡Cállate, chamaco! = Shut up, kid!  
> ¿Es siempre así? = Is he always like this?  
> Oh, sí. Siempre. Como un burro. = Oh yes. Always. Like a donkey.  
> ¿En serio? = Seriously?  
> wie sagt mann? = how do you say it?  
> Meine güte = My goodness  
> Wunderschön, nö? = Wonderful, eh?  
> Sauer macht lustig = Sour makes you fun. An actual german idiom that doesn't have an equivalent in english.  
> Angela, was heisst lustig auf Englisch? = Angela, what is funny in english?
> 
> **Media References: **  
> ****  
> Green Valley by Puscifer  
>  Red Sun (1971)  
> Baccano!  
> [This video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hooKVstzbz0)


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